The Poetry Of.
Kim Rush............................................................
Dad Stuff
Sobs oozing underneath my son's bedroom door leak into my
Saturday late morning sleep.
A stuffed dinosaur's head has fallen off.
Kids
I stand and cheer, like he's won Nobel's prize, as skinny
seven year old legs run him down the base line on his first
hit of the old Little League season.
Kids
"Hey Dad, what's another word for boogers?"
Kids
Twenty-seven posters: six drafts of his speech: one hundred
handouts, and I worry. "Hunh? Na--a hundred and five votes.
Next year, in seventh grade, I'm running for President. Got
any bananas?"
Kids
The smell of disinfectant fills my mind as I walk the stairs
to his hospital room. He'll be all right.
Kids
"Dad. I need a motorcycle to get to work. But, you said--."
Kids
"You're the splitin' image of your Old Man," everyone says.
Kids
Today
Today: I wrapped split chicken breasts in the last of the
tinfoil I took when you asked me to leave our home:
There's trouble in the Middle East.
We've out grown each other--you said.
I paid the oil company,
to keep winter warm.
Our son called me on the phone.
I signed the Quit-Claim deed for our home.
The president said he'd send troops.
Lunch was a hamburger, fries, and a coke.
My mouth watered over thoughts of your macaroni salad.
Gas prices are going to go up.
I saw a thousand pretty faces; none of them were you.
Traffic was congested
and it rained.
Dinner was six-ninety-five, and free refills.
Pages of a book were turned until dark.
Today, I wrapped split chicken breasts in the last of the
tinfoil I took when you asked me to leave our home.
Tonight, I will sleep alone.
